Pavlove
by love.never.ends.33
Summary: I am a living, breathing example of Pavlov's dog experiment. My brain is rewired to get ready to fight the instant I hear my favorite band, Fall Out Boy. And before a boxing match, you better believe I'm listening to them on repeat. It's the greatest advantage I could have, but as they say - your greatest strength is also your greatest weakness.
1. Getaway

**Revised Dec 11 2016**

**Patrick**

_A moment passed. Then another._

"_What?" Patrick's blue eyes blinked in rapid succession in hopes that his sight was deceiving him. "What is this?"_

_He heard Elisa sigh and wished that it was one of regret. But when he raised his head, she lifted the handle of her luggage and adjusted the strap of her carry-on. "I want a divorce, Patrick."_

"_No."_

"_Pat-"_

"_No! Don't call it quits, El."_

"_Do you think I want to? I just can't handle this anymore!" She sat on the bar stool near the island of the kitchen counter and rubbed the bridge of her nose. _

_He walked hesitant steps toward her. Afraid that if he rushed, she would run away like a scared doe. "Tell me how to fix this," he whispered._

_She wrapped her lips around a slender digit and contemplated whatever was on her mind until she finally spoke, "Music or me."_

_It felt like she slapped him across the face and punched him in the gut all at once. _

_In a breathless voice he said, "You know how much music means to me."_

_She returned a thin smile. "I shouldn't have to ask, Patrick."_

_He watched her grab the handle again and she walked out the front door. _

_This time he didn't try to stop her._

* * *

Patrick hated his own mind sometimes. It made him relive memories he'd rather leave behind.

Had it really been six months since the divorce? Since Elisa left him?

He knew it was probably for the best, but it didn't make the heartache lessen. He learned how to numb the pain and for now, it was enough.

"Did you really have to wear the Hollywood-camo get-up?" Pete asked.

His voice startled him and Patrick prayed to God he didn't see him zoning out. "Uh," was all he could say while he attempted to pull his mind from the fog.

"At least take your hat off. You made that thing into your own Batman signal."

Patrick finally took in account his surroundings and remembered he was in line at a crowded Starbucks. He looked up to view the rim of the hat he wore and realized that his best friend made a point. He didn't think the fedora would make him such a recognizable target. He casually lifted the hat off — ruffled his sweaty, dirty blonde roots — and gave it to Pete. "Sorry, I forgot about that. Good catch."

"What would you do without me?" he asked and bumped into Patrick roughly, making him stumble into the woman paying for her order.

"Sorry, ma'am," Patrick apologized while he glared at Pete, giving him a look that said _Dude, you suck_.

He just shrugged his shoulders. Rolling his eyes, Patrick gladly removed himself from his self-made pity party. It was time to move on.

"What are we even doing here?"

"We can't function without coffee. You know that," his smart mouth replied.

Was it a normal feeling to want to strangle your best friend? Patrick couldn't tell. He's had this feeling for as long as he's known Pete.

He shook his thoughts away. "No, I mean why are we in Virginia?" Patrick inquired again.

Pete was the kind of man who felt at home surrounded by chaos — if not creating it himself. He shrugged again. "You said you wanted to get away." He was also quick to point out, "'_Any fucking place, man_.'"

At that memory, a wry smile appeared on Patrick's face. Pete recited the last words he'd said in a drunken stupor a few nights before.

"Yeah, don't remind me," he commented. "I would have never thought Pete Wentz vacationed at Suburbia, Virginia."

"Excuse me, but I think this place is rich with history and a wonderful place to relax at."

Patrick paused for a moment. "You closed your eyes and picked a state on a map, didn't you?"

"You need to stop mind-reading, Patty-cakes."

30 years old and you would have thought that nickname had died by now. Apparently not.

Patrick wanted to complain some more until he heard a loud cough. He looked at the barista manning the cashier, all fake-smiles with the familiar green visor, ready to take the order.

"What's the order today, sir?"

One more withering glance at Pete and he turned back to the boy in front of him. "Two black coffees, medium."

The boy nodded. "Names?"

"Pete and Patrick," Pete interjected.

Patrick stared at him with fearful eyes. What the hell was wrong with him?

"Two grande americanos!" the boy repeated loudly for the baristas beside him. "Should be ready shortly." Another fake-smile and he was already paying attention to the next person in line.

Patrick released a relieved breath. "Maybe it's a good thing we're in Virginia, then," he agreed.

"Knew you'd come around to it."

The smell of freshly ground coffee beans filled the air along with indie-pop-rock songs from the speakers. Patrick stepped for the milk and sugar station as he and Pete waited for their order. He would have been happy to stay quiet but such a dull moment never existed in Pete's world.

"Is there anything you want to do while we're here?" his best friend questioned.

Patrick sent him a strange look. "You don't have a plan?"

"Nope," he stated. "Figured we'd wing it once we got here."

Patrick just chuckled to himself. He shouldn't have expected any more from Pete. It was only the way he was. "Yeah," he settled. "Of course we will."

"Unless you want to go to a strip club. I could totally do that."

His cheeky suggestion left Patrick a fumbling mess. He forgot where they stood and knocked over spices, sweetener packets, and worst of all — thermos cups of milk — all over the table. Pete's snickers made his face redden; he couldn't discern if it came from his obvious embarrassment or his ever growing annoyance towards Pete.

"_Ay_!" a woman with braided black hair exclaimed. "_Mira!_ Look at this mess!" she said with a slight accent.

She wasn't wearing the normal attire the rest of the employees wore. Instead of a green smock wrapped around her body, she wore a plain black blouse and khaki-colored pants. Her breast pocket told him she was Penelope, the store manager.

His face reddened even further.

"I'm so sorry!" Patrick apologized as Pete giggled louder than before. He noticed the cleaning equipment she carried and grasped at the opportunity of absolution. "I'll even clean it up, ok?"

She thrusted the mop to him hurriedly.

"_Toma_. I want it spotless," she demanded in a frenzy. Her fleeting eyes taking in the crowd of customers.

"Tia Peti, what are you doing?!" another voice interjected. He vaguely saw a tiny girl — she must have been if he had to look down — stand next to him in his peripheral vision. "You can't treat customers like that! It's bad for business, not to mention _rude_."

"Gris, look at what he did to _la mesa! Y el piso, tambien!_"

Patrick dropped his gaze to the floor and noted that most of the liquid dripped on the floor. He did cause quite the mess.

He heard the girl's jaw tick loudly.

"Get your employees to clean it up. It's what you pay them for, isn't it?"

She whisked away the mop from Patrick before he could stop her. He found his voice a second later and told her, "Look, I really don't mind. It's my mess."

The girl shoved the cleaning equipment back to the manager; much like the same way the distraught woman did to him. Without sparing a backwards glance, the girl said, "Don't let my aunt guilt-trip you. She may be the manager but she's lazy."

The manager — Penelope, Peti, whatever — pinched her niece's side. "_Callate vos!_"

The girl just smacked her hand off. "_You_ shut up! Pay attention to the rest of the customers. Give the mop to a minion or something."

If Patrick hadn't felt so embarrassed, he would've thought the exchange was funny. It didn't seem like a typical aunt-niece relationship but he didn't contemplate on it too much.

He watched the girl stroll for the pick-up section as she chatted away with the baristas. He heard her change their orders, and mentally shouted many praises to the baristas for not mentioning their names.

Pete felt his best friend jump when he clamped his arm around him. "That worked out better than I thought," he jeered.

Patrick jerked his arm off. "You're too much, you know that?"

They heard some more arguing between the manager and the girl. Patrick understood enough Spanish to know that Penelope didn't agree with her niece getting them free stuff.

"They don't look too happy," Pete noted.

They watched as the girl defiantly slapped a plastic card on the counter as she openly scowled at the manager. She just threw her arms up, exacerbated by her niece's actions, and let the barista charge the card.

He didn't say anything more as the girl approached them. She was still speaking with the crew behind her, carrying two large coffees in both hands, so she didn't notice the puddle of milk she was going to step on.

Patrick watched as she slipped and slid across the floor like a bad imitation of the infamous Risky Business scene.

He winced, waiting for the impending crash but Pete and him were stunned as she regained her balance without spilling a single drop of hot, scalding coffee. She managed to stop directly in front of them, and Patrick sent a silent thanks to the gods she didn't end up scalding him and Pete, either.

She inspected herself a quick minute before sending them a charming smile. "Whoops! Close call."

As soon as everyone regarded each other, Patrick noticed her slacked jaw and he readied himself for a fanatical scream.

They'd been recognized.

Instead of squealing her head off like he expected, she just shook her head and schooled her features.

"Sorry for staring. I think I need to check on my eyes again," she said in a self-chastising tone. She handed the coffees to them, along with a large bag of pastries he hadn't noticed. She even added sandwiches for them both. "Little consolation upgrade for dealing with my nutty aunt."

They were relieved she hadn't outed them. They played along with her little excuse so long as they wouldn't get exposed.

"You didn't have to do that," Patrick declared.

She scoffed as she waved her hand. "Peti likes to make things a bigger deal than they really are. She needs some supervision of her own."

Patrick grinned at the girl. "Thank you, um…"

"Grey," she filled in, offering an outstretched hand to him.

He took it amiably. "I'm — " Patrick realized he couldn't reveal his real name without having the girl reconsider her excuse so he went with the next best thing. " —Martin. Name's Martin."

Her dark brown eyes squinted at him in suspicion and he wondered how much of a fan the girl was.

Pete redirected her attention to him to break her train of thought. "And I'm Lewis. Nice to meet you, Grey."

It seemed that she decided to ignore the similarities and continued. "All I ask is that you don't complain about Peti. I don't think there's a job in the world that can handle her."

Just then they heard a familiar shrill at the counter.

"Cooper, _la mujer_ said no whip cream!" the manager shouted nervously at the boy from earlier. "_Ay, Dios, dame la fortaleza de no matar este niño."_

Grey slapped her forehead as Patrick bugged his eyes out at the comment. Pete looked at him for an answer, since he was the only non-Spanish speaker.

"'God, give me the strength to not kill this boy.'"

"Drama queen," the girl grumbled. She whirled to watch the scene with an irritated huff. "I better go back there. She's only like this if it's super busy." She bid them farewell with a small flick of her wrist and rushed to her aunt's side.

Pete took a small sip of the coffee as he watched Grey smack the back of her aunt's head.

"Just use a spoon to scoop up the whipped cream! No need to make death threats!"

"I should embarrass you more often. We meet very interesting people that way," Pete remarked.

"You need some supervision, too."

"Probably."

They decided it was best to leave the store. Like Grey said before, they had enough close calls for the day.

It was the first time, Patrick noticed, that he didn't think about the divorce, or even Elisa for that matter.

Maybe things were looking up after all.

* * *

**A/N: Hello, there. Hopefully I didn't lose you there!**

**You have finished reading the new and improved Chapter 1 of Pavlove! Woo-hoo!**

**And if you kept up at all with the story, I have to apologize for not updating for 9 months. I'M SO SORRY!**

**Anyways, I hated how the story was going originally so I decided to hit reset, so to speak.**

**Let me know in the comments below what you thought! Hate it, love it, meh - I want to know!**

**Until next time,**

**L**


	2. Home Sweet Home

****Revised Dec 11 2015****

**Patrick**

A week had passed since he and Pete arrived in Virginia.

They made it a morning routine to visit the Starbucks in hopes to catch more entertaining scenes — more for Pete's amusement that Patrick's — but the days passed by uneventfully.

They spent most of their time perusing through bookstores, music shops — even checking out the local music scene.

All in all, Pete's prediction had been right. It turned out to be quite relaxing.

The pair decided to visit a small sandwich shop for dinner, and sat at a booth near a large window. Patrick scooched as close to it as possible, feeling his heated skin cool a bit. The only complaint he had about the trip was the rapid change of weather. It was cold and raining one day, then a scorching heat replaced the damp air the next.

As they were settling in, they heard a light strumming in the shop. The main reason they had come was because it offered live entertainment. They loosened up and placed their orders while listening to an acoustic cover performance of John Mayer when Patrick felt a vibration from his right pocket.

He fished out his phone and caller ID told him it was his mother.

"Hey Mom," he greeted her with a sandwich stuffed in his mouth.

"Oh, Patrick, did I not teach you _any _manners?" she chided him through the phone.

He laughed cajolingly at her greeting but swallowed everything before he replied, "Sorry, Mom. What's up?"

"I just wanted to know how you were doing," her innocent voice told him.

In a measured voice he replied, "I'm fine. Is there something wrong?"

"Am I not allowed to ask how my son is doing?" she challenged.

Patrick only rolled his eyes at his mother, very thankful for the fact that the conversation was taking place over the phone and not in person. "Sorry, mom," he repeated. "But I'm honestly doing fine. Pete dragged me to Virginia and we're having a good time so far."

She used that sweet tone of hers again. "That's good to hear, sweetie. You deserve it."

He was surprised to hear _that_ from his mother's mouth. It was no secret she was against the divorce, so he knew she was hiding something. "Mom, what are you really calling about?"

"Goodness, I can't even have five minutes of pleasant conversation without my own son questioning my motives," she mumbled in dismay. "Fine, you caught me. Your father is making me do this, by the way."

"You're stalling," Patrick pointed out.

"Yes, I know."

He heard his father in the background telling her to "hurry it up."

He heard her rough sigh and she quickly told him the reason she called. "I almost had a heart attack last week."

Patrick felt like he would have one of his own right then and there. Heart attack? _Last week?_ "And you're telling me this _now?_" he shouted through the phone.

Pete, along with everyone else in the sandwich shop, tossed him a bewildered look. "What's going on?"

Patrick motioned for him to quiet down before his mother replied.

"It's not such a big deal," she said casually. "They treated me very quickly."

"Of course not, Mom," Patrick's sarcastic voice told her. "It's not like heart attacks kill anyone and aren't growing like a fucking parasite."

"Language, Patrick!"

He released a resigned breath. "Sorry, Mom."

"Now, look," her tone of voice admonishing him, "I had the symptoms that your father immediately recognized. He took me to the hospital, the doctors gave me some medication, and I'm feeling fine. A bit tired, but fine nonetheless." He heard some rustling as his mother tried to cover the phone. "See this is why I didn't want to say anything! He's all worked up over nothing now."

He heard the muffled voice of his father though the phone. "Give me the phone, Pat." Some more rustling later and Patrick could hear his father. "Hey, kid. Sorry about not telling you earlier. Your mother threw such a fit, the docs and I thought she'd have another one."

Patrick conscience filled with guilt knowing that he yelled at his mother. He didn't want to cause her any more distress. "Is she ok? Like actually ok?"

"Yeah. It helped that we got there so fast." He lowered his voice, "She needs to take it easy the next few weeks. We got lucky, kid. No doubt about it."

Patrick ran a frantic hand through his hair, desperately wishing he was at home instead of at a place away from his mother.

He decided he'd do just that.

"Tell Mom I'm coming home."

He heard his father's low hum, "Now how did I know you were going to say that?"

In spite of the mood, one side of Patrick's lip turned up in a crooked grin. "See you guys soon. Bye, Dad."

He touched the red button to end the call and placed his forehead against the table. Trust his mother to make him worry and give him a pounding headache.

"Is Pat ok?" Pete asked, worry laced evidently in his tone.

"She had a heart attack and makes it sound like a cavity filling."

He heard a rush of air leave Pete. "Shit."

Patrick cradled his head tightly to help ease the pain but it didn't work. He felt a hand tug his hair and pulled his head up, and that's when he saw Pete's rarely worn "serious" face.

The look of a concentrated, focused man who only ever had one goal in mind.

"C'mon, time to head home."

The house still stood with it's robin's egg blue paint, fading and chipping with old age, and the gutter was in terrible need of replacement. The strategically placed windows, like watchful eyes of a hawk, reminded Patrick of his childhood and the fact that they were just like his mother: attentive and judgemental.

Although Patrick knew it was the right thing to do to go back to Chicago, he also dreaded it.

He loved his mother to death — but she was _unbearable_.

He knocked on the door of his parent's home and heard the familiar flip of the peep hole opening. Pete, already used to the incoming greeting, stood his ground along with Patrick.

Pat rushed at them like a tornado, ready to scoop them up in her vortex of bone-crushing hugs, flippant comments, and moods the buoyed like a boat out in the open sea.

She wrapped her arms around them tightly and kissed both their cheeks. "It's so nice to see you boys!"

Patrick welcomed the accost without any complaint. He was happy to know that his mother was still acting like herself.

"David," she called for his father loudly, "help out with the luggage, will ya?" She whirled back to them with a smile in place. "Go in the living room and wait for me. I was just making some dinner."

She hauled them inside the house by the arms and shoved them on the couch that always seemed to eat people.

She dashed for the kitchen to finish her preparations but still held conversation with them, regardless of distance. "So what were you two doing in Virginia? Isn't that out of way?"

Before Patrick could say anything, Pete beat him to the punch. "We were there to distract Patrick," he revealed with terrible excitement.

Pat instantly perked her ears at the piece of information. "Oh? Distract him from what?"

"You know — from the divorce and all."

_And here we go_, he thought.

There was an awkward pause and Patrick knew she was debating whether to give her son the coddling of his life or smack his head with a wooden spoon.

Thankfully, she hadn't decided to go with option two but her words certainly did the trick. "I guess that's to be expected. Though, there wouldn't have been a divorce in the first place if you had worked at the marriage a bit harder, Patrick," his mother opined as usual.

He groaned, "Mom, can we not start this again?"

She ignored his request. "I'm not saying you don't deserve a distraction — because you do, but it would have been much simpler if you just did what she asked."

Patrick mentally threw flaming daggers at his best friend's masochistic smirk for causing all this.

"Oh, don't be too hard on him, Pat," Pete answered for him. "Everyone makes an oversight once in awhile."

Patrick used the chance to turn the tables on his friend. "Like when Pete married Ashley."

His mother agreed. "Yes! Exactly! What were you thinking, Pete?"

It was Pete's turn to groan. "Crap," he cursed softly. "She was pregnant, Ma!"

"Don't 'Ma' me!" Patrick imagined she was flicking the wooden spoon in response. "You were an adult, you knew perfectly well of the consequences. Bless your boy's soul he's growing up to be such a well-behaved child."

Pete shoved his couch mate. "Touché."

"Does this mean you'll marry Meghan then?" Patrick's mother never knew when to stop. Her assault would continue until she damn well pleased. "She _is_ pregnant with your child."

Pete openly gaped, dumbfounded. He wasn't quite expecting that. It was probably the first time he was ever speechless.

Patrick felt the tiniest bit at fault and tried to help his friend. "I think Pete's learned his lesson. He'll be more careful with the 'M' word this time."

"Men," she said disdainfully. "When will they ever learn? Oh!" his mother's surprised gasp seemed bashful since it followed a muffled slap.

"We're not all that crummy!" David proclaimed.

Patrick cringed when he realized that the sound must've been his father slapping his mother's butt. He was grateful they were in different rooms, at least.

"Not all of us want boring jobs like yours, Pat," his father defended. "If Patrick wants to keep making music, then Elisa should've supported him."

His mother didn't have anything to say at that point and Patrick revelled in the silence.

David finally made his appearance and smiled widely at the men in front of him. "Long time, no see, huh?" his low voice boomed.

Pete only gave him a small wave as Patrick stood up from the man-eating couch.

"I know. I haven't visited in a while," Patrick greeted his father with a hug.

David gripped his son's shoulder warmly. "You're here now. That's all that matters." As he sat down on the couch opposite his guests, he seemed to remember something. "So how long do you two plan to stay?"

"Oh, I'm here for a little bit longer," Pete informed. "I've gotta see my folks, too."

Patrick continued, "We'll probably stay for, like a week, or so."

"Um," Pete showed his pearly whites a bit too wide to be considered a smile as he told them, "maybe shorter than that. Forgot to tell you we have an interview at the UK in a few days."

Patrick furrowed his brow. "When did that happen?"

"Joe just told me last week during vacation."

"Can't I just skip it?"

"No, go!" David joined in. "Bring us back some souvenirs!"

Patrick just frowned. "But I just got here. And Mom –" he lifted his arm to point at her but his father gestured for him to put it down.

"Is fine," David finished for him. "She just needs to be more careful is all." He covered his mouth with one hand and whispered, "You know how your mother gets. Her blood pressure is probably skyrocketing 'cause she loves to start things up." His father shook his head in fondness. "That woman."

"Are you three gossiping?" Pat shouted from the kitchen.

"No, dear!" his father replied. He looked back at Patrick and said, "We're just glad you're home." Then David left them to see if he could help his wife in the kitchen.

Once they had the room to themselves, Patrick immediately punched Pete. "You're dead to me."

"Yeah, that definitely didn't go as I planned."

"And you should've told me about the UK days ago!"

Pete shrugged. Holy smokes, how often did he do that? It was getting irritating. "It just slipped my mind."

His nonchalance was annoying the ever-living snot out of Patrick. "How long do we have?"

"Three days. Joe and Andy are already there."

Patrick frowned again. He would make the three unbearable days at home count, then. "Do you need a ride back to your place?"

"Nah, I'll just Uber it." Pete's monotone voice made him worry and he felt it had to do with his mother's earlier comment.

"Sorry about sic-ing my mom on you," Patrick said quietly.

Pete gave him a tight smile. "I know. Can't say I didn't deserve it, though."

He couldn't deny him there. "If it's any consolation, I like Meghan way better."

Pete chuckled at the unexpected statement. "Me, too."

Patrick cleared his throat as if it could clear away the awkwardness. "We're good, then?"

"Yeah."

After he dropped his friend out the door, his mother suddenly appeared behind him with hands clasped together like a prayer.

"Time for dinner! And you better eat everything!"

Patrick dropped his head a bit and wondered how he would survive those three days. Yes, he was _definitely_ home.


	3. Fight

**Published Dec 11 2016**

**Grey**

There was nothing quite as satisfying like the loud and sickening _crack _of a nose breaking.

My opponent's head snapped back and she momentarily lost her balance; the elastic bands that squared us in saved her from falling head-first onto the matted floor. She struggled to stand back up but she managed to, just seconds away from the referee calling her out. I couldn't help showing her a tiny grin.

_Good girl, get back in the fight_, I thought.

She finally learned her lesson and kept a gloved fist near her chin. The glove was dulled with age, but it matched the shade of red that poured out of her face.

She was furious and in such predictable fashion, she threw a jab aiming for my face. Before she rotated her hips, I had already pushed on my right toe to dodge left.

I moved in swift dances around her a little longer, dodging around her jabs with quick efficiency. Her punches were becoming erratic but somehow I was able to find a rhythm. I used it to my advantage and to keep things interesting, I even allowed her to graze my cheek.

Our dance helped me regain my energy. Her last hook hit me directly on the cheek, knocking my teeth against it so hard that it created an open gash. I swallowed the rusty saliva down my throat and I didn't have any time to be bothered by it.

I waited long enough for her to stop breathing correctly. She was losing herself to the anger and that was the mistake I was counting on.

She threw a tired right jab, making sure to keep her left fist tucked under her chin. As soon as I ducked, I delivered fast hooks at her exposed ribs. Her body recoiled against the assault and she clung to me like a life jacket.

I knocked her off and intended to finish her off mercifully. She didn't need another punch in the face. An untreated broken nose hurt like a bitch.

But before I could do so, the bell rang and the round ended.

"Corners!" the referee ordered. He ran between us and pushed us to our respective spots.

I sagged with relief as soon as I saw my familiar blue stool. My trainer was thoughtful enough to hand me an ice cold water bottle and a bucket to spit in. I sat down, removed the mouthguard, and swished the water in my mouth in an attempt to clean the gash. The blood wasn't flowing as fast as before, or nearly as much.

Connor, my trainer, went straight to work on my back. His hands squeezed aching muscles as he prepared me for the next round. "You're doing great, Grey. Just one more blow and she's out like a light."

Focused on the woman across from me, I could only nod in agreement. She looked like a raging bull and I was the waving red flag.

His slick, cold hands moved up to my neck, rolling it left and right to keep it relaxed. "Just finish her off. I need you to turn on that mental radio of yours."

I felt two fingers tap the side of my head roughly, as if the act would turn on my "mental radio."

I whipped my head around to glare at him. "You know there's no button, right?"

He snapped my head back in place. "Stop thinking! Just do it — the bell's gonna ring any minute."

With a scowl in place, I knew that Connor was right. I pushed the annoyance I felt for him far away from my mind and attempted to do what he asked. I squeezed my eyes shut and with practiced ease, I imagined myself into the abyss. Any noise from the crowd was replaced with a peaceful silence. It was endlessly dark but warm, as comforting as the embrace of a mother and her newborn child. If we all had our own happy place, this would be mine.

Straight ahead, a soft light shone brightly against the blackness, and I walked toward it. It almost felt like I was gliding, floating, since I couldn't feel anything below my feet. The closer I came to it, I wondered if Connor had been right. The light grew brighter and I stopped right in front of a jukebox — or as Connor called it, my mental radio.

"_Well, he wasn't wrong," _my thoughts verbalized.

In a hurry, I shuffled through the tracks. I already spent too much time inside my head, and I had a match to get back to. My hand hovered in place as I stopped at the track I wanted. The buttons — the jukebox, really — were just for show. I was in my head, after all.

One sharp inhalation later, and I was immediately brought back in the ring. The roar of people cheering returned to my ears only to be drowned by my jukebox. My favorite song was playing at full volume, the vibrations reaching deep inside my bones. Even my heart rattled in my chest from the booming bass.

Connor was a distant memory, a tether that held me in reality. One that I happily cut off.

The woman across the ring stared at me with so much hate, it made me smile like a maniac.

The music caused a primal burn within me, begging to be released.

_Fight. Fight. Fight._

I had to remind myself that my instinct didn't rule over me. I had to remind myself the reason I boxed. I had to remind myself the reason I fought.

_It's for them_.

Then I saw rather than heard the bell being rung.

_**Fight!**_

Connor hauled me out of the ring after the judges declared me the winner.

"Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm." He threw the satin robe over my head, making me look like a nun in the process but I honestly couldn't care less about it.

I almost threw a punch at him though. Because his words only fanned the flame.

Connor swung his torso around with a sheepish grin. "Wrong thing to say, huh?"

My short nails created deep half-moons inside my hands in an effort to speak normally. "At least you're smart enough to know you're an idiot."

He laughed at the insult, and even though it should've annoyed me, my mind and heart were racing much too fast for me to pay attention.

He placed himself in front of me, and I knew it was my cue to follow the next step of our routine. My fingers curled at his sides, clutching the fabric of his sweater in my fists. Once he was sure I held onto him, he moved forward. His arms swung reporters and photographers out of the way, leaving behind a semi-clear path for me to walk on.

"You good?" he asked.

One rough tug was my answer: yes.

He moved faster until we left the arena and entered the tunnels. The darkness reminded me of my happy place, and my hands loosened their hold on Connor a bit. The burning need wouldn't leave, and the adrenaline coursing through my veins didn't help, either.

In this state of mind, the need to _destroy_ was overwhelming.

A few feet farther, we stopped in front of a metal door. The name "Romero, Griselda" was written on a white sheet of paper, unceremoniously taped on the door. How courteous.

Connor opened the door to my reserved locker room. I zeroed in on the bench at the very back of the room, and unclenched my hands from his side to walk there. I planted my ass on the flat wood, yet it did nothing to ease my tension. It felt stiff like me.

"How're you feeling?"

I pointed to my cheek.

He nodded in understanding. "There's a few docs out there. Most of 'em are treating the other girl. You gave her a good beating."

That cracked a smile out of me which didn't go unnoticed. "Gimme a few minutes, okay?"

Connor flashed me a quick thumbs up before retreating for the door. He even made sure to turn off the lights before he left.

I smiled at the enveloping darkness. Air filled my lungs with with less effort than before and my hands weren't clutching the bench for dear life.

My heart was still beating at a thousand miles a minute, and although the burn was lessening, I was tempted to break the bench in two or try to dent the door.

Releasing at irritated breath, I swung my feet on the bench and laid my back flat against it.

"Happy place, happy place, happy place…" I repeated to myself. Once I closed my eyes, there I was.

I was far, far away from my jukebox this time around. The light still surrounded it, but it reminded me of a speck of a star in the dark sky.

I was still floating, but the experience was vastly different since I was horizontal instead of vertical. It felt like I was swimming in the ocean, and the next thing I knew my hands were drifting me along the waves I imagined.

I stopped thinking about my thundering chest and what was happening beyond my locker room door; instead I focused on the cool water, the gentle waves, and how the abyss sounded like as the water lapped at my ears.

"God, how can you stand the silence?"

My eyes wandered at each and every direction but it was too dark. Her voice didn't startle me though. She always appeared, sooner or later.

"If you don't like it, then leave," I told her.

"You're my only company. I'll take what I can get."

The water sloshed in my ear as I tilted my head. "You feel lonely?"

Only silence answered and I thought I finally pushed her away when I heard a hot whisper in my ear. "Don't you?"

"Fuck!" I splashed water in the direction of her voice but I knew I didn't wet her. "Why do you always have to creep me out?"

"It's fun!" Her hot breath returned to my ear. "C'mon, answer my question. Don't you feel lonely, too?"

"No," I replied immediately.

"Oh, that sounds _so _convincing."

"I have Tia. I have Connor. I'm never alone."

Her resounding giggle raised goosebumps on my arms. "Now, now Grey! You know that wasn't my question." I felt a heavy body sitting on my stomach and she lowered herself so that we'd be thigh-on-thigh, belly-to-belly, breast-to-breast until we were face-to-face. "You know the difference between alone and lonely. You know how I know?"

"_Shut up!"_

But she wouldn't. "I'm you. You're me. And when I say I feel lonely, so do you. I know why. You know why. Let me help you."

Her hands traced my throat and my eyes widened at her gentle touch. Her beatic smile looked downright angelic and even though she had my face, she was nothing like me. I was practical, she was reckless. I was loving, she was dangerous. I was scared, she was fearless.

"Get off me!"

"You may not like it, but I know what you want." Her hands, so gentle before, hardened to diamonds, constricting my airways. "Let me help you."

I scratched at her hands and wished that I never cut my nails in the first place. Like a useless fish out of water I gasped in an attempt to collect as much oxygen that my closed off lungs could get. "Stop," I said, my voice weak as a mouse.

Her brown eyes relished in my demise. "Just give up!" Her voice rose an octave as if she couldn't handle the excitement. "Give up!"

I shook my head, so stubborn to prove to her — to myself — that I could never give up so easily. That only served to piss her off more so she did the only thing left to do.

In one push, she shoved me under the water and held me there for more seconds than I could bear. I could feel the cold air pierce my arms as I lifted them to grab her. I screamed in desperation and only later realized that I stupidly filled my lungs with water.

In a voice that sounded just like my mother, she said, "Give up."

In that instance, I woke up with a strong pain on my side and immeasurable relief that I could breathe. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I remembered the fight and my locker room. I remembered lying on the bench and noticed that I was now laying on the floor. I rolled onto my back and felt my throat. No soreness, no water, nothing out of the ordinary.

I closed my eyes. So it was dream. A terrible dream.

God, not again.


End file.
